


Retentive Memory

by Palpalou



Series: Cold And Soft As Satin [4]
Category: Rome (TV 2005)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Deviates From Canon, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:13:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23110759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Palpalou/pseuds/Palpalou
Summary: The Caesarians are looking for Brutus' corpse.
Relationships: Mark Antony/Marcus Junius Brutus the Younger
Series: Cold And Soft As Satin [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1519721
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	Retentive Memory

There were spiders in his tent.

His men had set him up far away enough from the battlefield that he wouldn’t be disturbed by the smell, under a grove of olive trees to mitigate the Grecian heat, even. It was all very bucolic. But apparently the copse had hosted a colony of spiders and a fair amount of them had relocated to the pavilion.

Currently, he was sitting on the floor, leaning back against the side of his cot with one hand curled around the neck of a bottle which he wasn't drinking and one heavily bandaged leg extended in front of him, contemplating his sword. He had set it down with the rest of his armour, unceremoniously, against a tent pole. One minuscule arachnid, smaller than the nail on his pinkie finger, was weaving in the space between the blade and the wood pillar. It was going fast now after struggling a bit with setting the radial threads, and nearly done.

It made him think of the women in his mother’s house when he was a child. He hadn’t been back for a long time, not even for his brother’s passing, as a ceremony had been held in Rome. He wasn’t often able to keep still, even in those days when he was more at risk of a pinch on the arm if he didn't, but there had been something hypnotic about the quick and mysterious dance of their hands.

His habitual healer, a grey-haired soldier with only one ear, and quite the talent for sewing as well, was sleeping on the ground alongside the wall of the tent, and snoring powerfully.

He wasn’t what kept Antony from Morpheus’ embrace. He should have been sleeping, recuperating from the intense days past. The night after the battle, he had found himself walking among the dead and dying while the moon rose and set again. He never used to have any trouble with it before, even in much worse condition than those. In Gaul, he had mastered the art of sleeping on his horse in between two assaults. Caesar used to call him a born soldier for it. And now he couldn’t even manage a nap before having to wrangle with Octavian and his rosy-cheeked cronies again.

“Sir?”

There was hesitant shuffling at the entrance of the tent, then one of his guards put a sheepish head through the opening.

“Marcus Aggripa to see you, sir.”

Speaking of the devil. He manoeuvred himself up without too much trouble. He had kept his sandals and his belt on and he didn’t bother with his cloak or his helmet. It was a statement. His soldiers would recognise him anyway. Still, he grabbed his blade on his way to Agrippa, another kind of statement.

The spider’s web tore away like nothing, the spider itself dangling for a moment on the end of a thread then tumbling down to the ground. He imagined it must have been rather surprised, but it would live to weave again.

Outside, Agrippa was looking slightly annoyed at being kept away from the tent. He was still wearing his full armour and looking miserable with heat for it. He glanced at Antony’s leg but didn’t ask about his health. The whole camp knew Antony’s healer had spent the night in his tent. Even if it hadn’t gotten back to Octavian and his retinue, Antony had started limping as soon as he’d stepped out into the glaring sun.

“They’ve found the body. Octavian said you should be there.”

Antony nearly faltered.

They had been here for three days, the bulk of the army busy chopping off any growth that could pass as a tree for the funeral pyres while smaller squads would patrol the countryside for remnants of the parricides’ army. Dark pillars of heavy smoke rose in the distance. The burning had been going slow, each corpse examined against a handful of coins which the self-styled Liberators had printed at some point.

After they had found Brutus’ abandoned _lorica_ and from the story some soldiers had given of a confusing melee where they might or might not have hacked one armourless fool to bit while defending against the last of the rallying forces, he had figured they would give up after a few days of search, once the stench became unbearable and advancing decay started making their efforts moot anyway. And besides, Cassius had been the military leader, any fool knew that, even if Brutus’s name had been the one painted on the walls, and they had this one’s mug in salt already.

“Oh, did he? Well, lead the way.”

“…Right! Follow me.”

With a gesture, he had three of his own guard accompany them.

They didn’t head to Octavian’s campsite, further up the hill, but back to the battle grounds where a piece of cloth drawn between three poles offered some shade.

There was a table underneath, and a corpse on the table. Four slaves were fending off the flies but could do nothing for the smell. Octavian was standing by the table, looking a bit green even with a handkerchief pressed against his nose. Even Maecenas, farther away, was looking peaky.

“Is it him, then?” he called, before Antony and Agrippa had even come close.

Antony approached the table. He wondered what Octavian knew about his history with Brutus. He was barely more than a boy even now, but Atia had always been very happy to parade her children around, and ears and eyes grew much sooner than beards or breasts. How did he expect him to react? If it was only about identifying a face, he wasn’t needed. Or maybe that wasn’t the point, he realised. He’d nearly forgotten he was involved with politicians now. Two names at the bottom of the scroll looked better for the Senate.

He bent over the body. The hair was the right shade; the nose was right as well, long and straight. But the rest was a disaster of pulverised flesh and bones. In addition, blood had pooled in the cheek, indicating the corpse had probably been found face down, felled from behind, making the flesh purplish black and stimulating decomposition in the face. It could have been anyone.

“Sure,” Antony said. “If not him then his twin.” And after a glance at Maecenas who was really looking quite unwell, “I do hope you aren’t planning to eat on this table again.”

With a brisk nod, Octavian stepped away.

“We’ll have the heads sent to Rome by ship. I’m planning to raise camp as soon as possible. How is your leg?”

“Uninfected, that’s about all I can say for it.” He raised a finger to his chin, thinking. “I’m not sure it would allow me to ride right now though. Oh! I have an idea... Why don’t I let the bulk of my troops leave with yours and give myself some time to recover.“

Octavian tilted his head. “That would seem like a reasonable plan.” He looked slightly suspicious.

“Of course! Especially if you consider how much faster a small group can move. I’ll catch up with you… around Modena, I should think.”

“That could work”, said Agrippa, considering. From Octavian’s side glare, he for one didn’t really care whether Antony was able to join back with them before their triumphal entrance into Rome. Antony was starting to know the boy…

“It’s decided then. I will get the word out. We’ll finish up the funeral rites and then we’re gone.”

“Quickly decided, quickly acted. Love it. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

And with an exaggerated limp, he started on the walk back to his tent.

The sun was getting lower in the sky but in the absence of wind inside the tent was still marginally cooler than outside.

“Two guards. Nobody enters,” he ordered over his shoulder.

His eyes needed a few seconds to accommodate, but he could already see the shape of his healer who had woken up and was bent over the cot.

“Awake?” Antony asked. "I've just buried you, you know. You should thank me."

From beneath the healer’s arm, his hair dark with sweat, his face covered in bruises and bandages, his patrician nose visibly swollen even under a fresh plaster -- it would heal crooked --, Brutus gave him a slow, glassy blink.

**Author's Note:**

> *Sike ! it was a fix-it all along ! Stay tuned for the next and final story.


End file.
